The Climax
by Duilin
Summary: As he goes off on the quest to rescue his cousin, Fingon muses about what has led him to do this, and wonders how the land he lives in has turned from holy, beautiful, and revered to poisoned, tainted, and riddled with Morgoth's touch.
1. February 7, FA 5

**For the sake of convenience, I've used our own calender system for the months. (Revised)  
>Thank you, spired-ivory, for pointing out the mistakes and given your input on the sentence structure! I appreciate it!<strong>

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><p>(<em>FA 5; February 7)<em>

Perhaps it's desperation that's driven me to this point of climax.

I am simply keeping a journal in a tattered, bound book to preoccupy my thoughts as I think over how hopeless and daring this is, but I cannot simply abandon the one who has helped train me, teach me, and even raised me to some degree in which I became my own entity—proud, benevolent, and guided. But I cannot deny that I am also killer and accomplice, aiding the sons of Fëanor in their attempt to secure passage to Middle-earth.

How has it come to this again?

Oh, I remember.

My father persuaded me not to go, of course. Or, at least he tried to, but I was obstinate to my own ideals, my hopes for adventure. As if killing wasn't enough to send threads of adrenaline through my veins and arteries! However, I cannot simply label it as a need for something other than doing the same thing almost every day, such as routing an ambush set up by the orcs, for I am on a quest—no, a journey, to save Maedhros, one of my greatest, dearest friends of the golden ages in Valinor.

I know.

If I had suggested the idea to my past self, right after the Kinslaying, I would have slain myself, after passing the theater of war, without a thought. On that note, it didn't really count as a war, as the Teleri had nothing to defend themselves with but meager arrows, flimsy and meant for shooting down flying fish near the shore, not bigger adversaries with giant bronze sticks and heavy-duty plates of armor. Again, it should be said that I am killer and accomplice both.

How dare they make off with the ships and leave us behind to toil in the icy hell that is the Helcaraxë?

How can I put aside my resentment to rescue the one who unintentionally, but still did, betray me and my people? I know I've changed, for I start to refer to the Noldor as my people, and they are. Why did Fëanor have to bring so many of our kin into this sick, demented quest for his urgency to reclaim his jewels?

I don't know why I keep asking so many unanswerable questions.

All I understand of my seemingly irrational thought is that I wish to do two of many things.

1. Mend the rift between the house of my cousins and my own house.  
>2. Save Maedhros and demand an reasonable, educated explanation of why the hell he left me to die at the Helcaraxë, making me witness oh so many horrors while all he had to do was sail across an entire ocean, with the only thing possibly disturbing to him a fish being mauled by a shark.<p>

But his brother, his young brother Amras, died. At his father's hands, burned alive on the very ships they took. I suppose I have no right to judge him so far, but I want an explanation.

On many a night and occasion, I would look at myself in the mirror and wonder who I truly am, if not Findekáno, son of Nolofinwë. News of our Kinslaying has reached Thingol's ears, so I'll probably be flayed by bare back if anyone else reads this journal and is a known hater of the Noldorin Kinslayers. Or, bluntly put, the murderers.

It's been only a week since I've traveled, but I see the heights of Thangorodrim even from here. The despairing, dark land that I will eventually have to cross shelters the horror that my cousin is imprisoned in. I can only hope that my will is strong enough to withstand the pulsating evil energy that Angband emits, even from where I stand, on a clear field in front of a row of trodden grass. Orcs have been here, raping the land and ravaging it.

They were distorted, it is presumed, from the original Elves that awoke here.

Either way, I find that most of my thoughts are centered on Maedhros, and the despair that he is most likely being hung by the ankle, or some sort of limb that would cause inordinate pain. If it was his neck, then this journey would have been all for nothing, and I might as well be dead for nothing except the satisfaction of seeing my half-cousin one last time. If he's even still hanging there.

I have a bad feeling, but I hope that it will become its worth.

Maglor, he came to me four days before I departed from Hithlum. There was remorse in his eyes, like none I have seen before. But it was specifically reserved for the Teleri, and bit of the portion for the Noldor who had been left behind. It makes me wonder; how is Uncle Arafinwë doing? He must be having one heck of a time, ruling what is left of the Noldor. Perhaps, one day, I will be able to return to Valinor and see my mother once more—the mother I left, the mother I love dearly, and the mother who wept for my siblings and I as my father agreed to follow Fëanor.

For now, I think I will rest in a tree and hope that an owl doesn't decide to defecate on me because one of my people might have accidentally shot a seagull in the fray.

Signed,**  
><strong>_Fingon_

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><p><strong>Okay, so I was rereading the Silmarillion, and I came across the part where Fingon decides to rescue Maedhros. It inspired me to write this; basically a diary of how Fingon fares as he travels to Thangorodrim in hopes of rescuing his cousin...and demanding answers.<br>**I won't deny it; Fingon isn't too happy with Maedhros, but he isn't the type who'd take in utmost joy at seeing Maedhros chained to a precipice by his right wrist.

**So, if you were wondering, yes, this is a diary.  
>Oh, and would you mind pointing any mistakes out? Thank you!<strong>

Tell me what you think!

(*V*)


	2. February 12, FA 5

**Yes, paint did exist in the First Age! But it was considered dye. Paint is a more...modern term, I suppose.  
>Revised, with the help of a lovely reviewer, <em>spired-ivory.<em> Thank you.**

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><p>(<em>FA 5; February 12)<em>

It's been a few days since I have been able to write in the worthless book that I call a log. I can only acquire ink by burning wood and spitting on the ashes, so I hope my family members will not be too disgusted at my primitive ways of gaining supplies. I don't know how ink is made, but I have seen blue ink before, so I can only assume that it is some type of dye. Typical, that a royal family member would be so ignorant of a profession that others base their living on.

Sometimes, I wonder what it would have been like to be a normal Elf—no such relations to the royal family except through ancestry of the first generation, since the First to Awake were considered the fathers of all Quendi (and all related, but not by blood). I am of the third, but it has been well over a thousand years. It astounds me how old I am, and how young the Men die, though they seem to age as quickly as...well...a domestic animal.

The Men in the lands below us I have not yet met, but they are Children of Eru as well. I know that there should be an unspoken respect between us. Hopefully.

I'm close to Thangorodrim now, and my senses are filled with dread. Now, my mind has come up with even more ways that Maitimo could be tortured with. I never knew I was capable of such thoughts until I came to Middle-earth with the burden of my sins as chains behind me.

It feels, whenever I pity myself, as if I drag them into the water and cross, hoping to drown and end my ways of living as a martyr, but the water is clever and refuses to give me the release I seek. Each time, I am brought to the surface once more, lungs filled with air, until I am dragged without warning underneath the placid, clear waters again. And then I am held beneath until I start to feel my diaphragm lock with deprivation of oxygen. I guess you could say I live a depressing life, but many do not see it for the mask of perserverance that I wear.

It's the same mask I'm wearing now, though what I really wish to do is fling myself onto the earth and allow my tears to water the flowers. I have a feeling the flowers will deny my tears because of my deeds, and my tears of self-pity, useless and still existing.

But there are no flowers in a land like this, near Angband.

Only the most persistent plants will try to survive this tainted ground. Even they are gnarled, and dead, greyed at the body and bent at the head.

Do I feel regret for deciding to risk my life to bring back Maedhros, though I could possible cause both of our deaths?

Only a little.

The rest of my emotional expanse is just filled with all sorts of disoriented feelings, all fitting under the category of confusion. I don't understand how one could possibly feel so _confused,_ and hold it in without shouting '_Confound it all_!" therefore attracting a respectful amount of orcs to the current location. Then, I remembered Maitimo, and I knew, _oh, how I **knew**_, he was even more so confused than I was, and he would not be able to make it through the day without wondering '_what if_?'

What if. The universally hated phrase that you could put in front of a number of things; from your deepest regrets to your soaring, sky high achievements.

What if I hadn't decided to join the party of Fingolfin? I still wonder, but I knew I would have went regardless.

If you multipied the number of orcs in Angband by the number of orcs in all of the world, raised to the power of two hundred and forty-three, then you would be able to understand just a _grain_ of how much I hate '_what ifs.'_

Oh, I have just come to the cognizance that I am only writing about my confused thoughts. This isn't as much as a log for my journey as it was diary for my conflicting thoughts. My sincerest apologies, to whoever is in possession of this journal.

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><p>I feel tired. I have just consumed the least amount of bread possible, mixed in with a nibble of cheese. The wooden canteen that I store my water in is still filled with water, but only to the third mark now. I can see it. Eventually, I will run out of supplies and be forced to hunt with the bow strapped to my back, accompanied by the quiver of sixteen arrows that have been used numerous times.<p>

Don't even remind me.

Currently, I am crossing Ard-galen. I was out of the realm of Hithlum quite a while ago, probably a fresh start of four hours. Thangorodrim is closer, and I feel that my demise is closer as well. Eru give me strength not to cower beneath the gates of Angband.

I'll need all of the blessings I can get.

Signed,  
><em>Fingon<em>

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><p><strong>So, this is the second journal entry! It may seem rushed, but don't worry; there are plenty more entries on when Fingon enters the cursed maze in the Great Gate of Angband.<br>**What did you think?  
>Please point out any errors, in canon or grammar!<p> 


	3. February 14 & 15, FA 5

_(FA 5; February 14)_

_I stand before the walls of Angband. I do not understand why I am there; do I not reside in Tirion? Why have the plains changed? I do not understand—and then Maitimo appears before me, sad and forlorn. He is shackled on the wrists, and one of them is severely mauled. It was the left wrist, from where I stood, but _his_ right. His appearance was altered from the noble and tall Elf that I had known before. __He was weaker now, and his back slumped with the effort of standing up._

_"Mai—Maedhros," I say slowly, slipping on the first syllable. After all, was it not him who requested I call him by his Sindarin name?_

_Maitimo shakes his head._

_I try again. "Nelyafinwë." It was my awkward attempt of being polite, since I knew we probably weren't on the best terms, enough to call each other by an _amilessë_. "Nelyo."_

_He raises a hand to gesture that I am wrong, or perhaps I was completely wrong in my idea of what he wanted answered. I feel frustration building up, and with that comes surprise. Middle-earth has changed me truly; I had great patience, but now, I am getting flustered at the simplest things!_

_"Maitimo, what is it?" I ask him._

_Maitimo smiles, but he does not speak. Instead, he takes from his sleeve the glinting silver handle of a brass knife and holds it before me. His stone grey eyes are miserable with what seems to be his endless internal torture. And I now know what he is asking of me._

_"I can't."_

_He walks towards me, trying to close the distance, but the shackles on his ankles hold him back. He settles for raising his arm slightly further, causing the knife to move closer to me._

_"You ask of me an impossible task," I try to tell him, definite in my decision not to become the ultimate Kinslayer._

_Maitimo shakes his head—wrong answer again, I suppose._

_"Please—Maitimo—_Russandol_, you know I cannot do this to you."_

_And then, Maitimo's voice returns to him, and he speaks. "You will not bring to me sanctuary from this rotting hell I am confined in?"_

_His words sting; I always wished for him the best, but my actions seemed to go against it, when he put it that way. I clench my fists and adamantly shake my head, knowing that I would never, ever _willingly_ hurt my own beloved half-cousin. "I will never harm you."_

_Instantaneously after I say that, Maitimo's eyes start to smolder and burn, and his hair is now as red as the fire of Fëanor's spirit—all-consuming, chaotic, incinerating, _devouring_. His gaze could raze a land of stone, and people with their hearts of wind. __Suddenly, I am sent flying back into the grass of Ard-galen. It is a major contrast from where I had been previously standing; on dead land. On the land before Angband, of course. As I look up at Maitimo, holding my jaw, I abruptly realise three things._

_He has struck me._

_From where I lie awkwardly, it is as if Maitimo represents the whole of Angband, standing before it as a symbol. __He is no longer Maitimo, Russandol, or even Nelyafinwë. __He is Maedhros, son of Fëanor._

_He is no longer my friend._

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><p>(<em>FA 5; February 15)<em>

That's where I woke up, in a cold sweat. I was in the ditch I dug yesterday, comically splayed out as I struggled to right myself. Eventually, I stood upright and stumbled away from the ditch. I was so stricken that I could not even maneuver efficiently.

I calmed down, trying to recall what had happened.

So there it is, above; the first part of my two journal entries today. My odd dream. I don't think I've ever had such a ridiculously_ far-flung_ dream like this. I never did take my dreams seriously, and I wasn't about to start now, but there was something about it that drew on my sixth sense. I sure wish I had an explanation now—it would rid me of unnecessary musings that I would never forget.

I faintly wondered how Maitimo was doing, and if his condition was even worse than what I pictured in my dream; shackled on every visibly elongated limb, excluding the neck. When I had read over the entry of the dream, I felt anger at how Maitimo was chained to Angband...

...and yes, he was chained to Angband itself, doomed never to leave unless he could drag the entire Iron Mountains to Himring.

I've started to move again. The tall grass won't be able to conceal me much longer, as the stalks are growing shorter and scarcer as I near Angband. Already, the ground is half barren, and small insects and bugs scuttle towards the areas of abundant grass. I would have sketched the land, but lead makes a better utensil than a quill on battered parchment, yellowed with age and crinkled. I have no lead. I am running out of pages, because I never expected my journal entry to be so long.

Oh, and Angband, despite popular belief, is not a wasteland of noxious fumes and sludges of trash.

It is actually, as I have done extensive research (surely, you did not think I would go rushing to save Maitimo without my brain?), a fortress beneath the cliffs of Thangorodrim. Thangorodrim itself is what many people believe to be the ultimate location, but it is not so. So, when I stood before the three volcanic pikes, I was stupefied. The ominous atmosphere caused it to become much more darker than it actually was, and the sky formed a swirl of red and grey, as if it were some sick, twisted entrance to a whole other dimension, beyond the bounds of Middle-earth and Valinor. The Void, perhaps.

And then I saw him, and my heart wrenched painfully.

There hung my cousin, my dear Maitimo, by his right wrist, and nothing else, on the upper cliff of the middle peak. His head was lowered in defeat, and his body, dressed in rags (of his former uniform attire), was battered and bruised. His feet dangled in the sky as wind cruelly blew enough to shift his position every two seconds.

"MAEDHROS!" I shouted.

Perhaps that wasn't the smartest idea I'd ever executed.

_No time to sig_


	4. February 18, FA 5

**As you may have noticed...  
><strong>The entries are getting shorter. This is because Fingon is now in Angamando (Angband in Quenya), and he has less time to write unless he wants to get captured by orcs. But he's still giving us the insight on his quest, **so stay tuned**!

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><p><em>(FA 5; February 18)<em>

Orcs are smarter than I gave credit for. I am currently squatting behind a giant rock, watching the cursed creatures sit around and speak in their unnatural, ugly language. Earlier, I had accidently kicked a pebble down the steep path that I had run up. Even though they managed to pursue me into their own land (which I grudgingly admit was a good move on their part), their hearing was the equivalent of a rock's. If they could hear as well as a butterfly, then they would have caught me by now. That's exactly how loud I was.

I can still see Maedhros from here, and he is purposely avoiding his gaze so the orcs do not look to him to find me.

Either that, or he's unconscious.

On the subject of _Angamando's_ climate, I must say; I will never go here for vacation. I don't know how the orcs bear it. Instead of risking my sense of taste and inhaling through my nose, I quietly breathe through my mouth. The taste of dust is a bit prominent, but I think I'll get used to it.

As my father used to say, "If an orc can do it, then you most definitely can."

...I know I should not be thinking of this right now, but what happened next was me, getting yelled at for replying, "Rolling in horse dung?"

I'm surprised that I still have my quill, but there is no ink. The thing I am using to write is a piece of chalkish-like red rock.

Why am I even bothering to keep a journal again?

_Fingon_


	5. February 19, FA 5

_(FA 5; February 19)_

Never try to ambush a party of lazy orcs—whoops, my blood got on the paper...

Oh well. I am now finding myself with a swollen black eye... At least, I think it's black. It could be purple, or blue. Not to mention several wounds on my arms, nicks on my back, and a gash down my leg. But this is nothing compared to the Helcaraxë. There's a reason why the first syllable of the thing is _hell_.

Maedhros has only looked at me once today. His eyes, set in that piercing grey, were glazed over, so I have a feeling that he may think he has been hallucinating my appearance.

I have progressed further to the middle peak of Thangorodrim. I just have to find away to get around the one on the right.

Morgoth hasn't spotted me yet, and neither have his servants. The orcs I ambushed earlier surely wouldn't be missed; I did annihilate all of them, but they fight _dirty_, in more ways than one. Maybe he's waiting for the right time to get me—but I'll get out of it.

I cannot lose hope yet.

_Fingon_


End file.
